House Divided (69 page)

 

Faunt left her house an hour before day. He went at a foot pace, and to avoid any chance encounter he circled the fringe of the still sleeping city, leaving the cemetery on his left as he descended to cross Shockoe
Creek and thread his way through lanes and bypaths to the Williamsburg road. In the shadowed dusk of dawn he was mysteriously uneasy, with a disturbing feeling that he had forgotten something. Was it possible that this sense of loss was no more than missing Nell? How much of himself had he left behind with her?

Day began to come, and the stir of waking filled the air. The smell of smoke from new-lit fires, the dewed fragrance of the meadows, the barking of dogs let out of doors to greet the day, the crack of an axe on kindling welcomed the coming sun. The morning chorus of the birds had sung him out of Richmond. Now, having offered up their melodious orisons, they were hushed, busy with their breakfasting. Faunt saw men in door yards along his road, beginning their day's tasks. A horseman overtook and passed him, riding at a canter, giving him the greeting of a lifted hand. The dust kicked up by the cantering horse rose in little puffs which joined to make a small cloud that hung heavy in the still air till it settled slowly back to earth again; and another rider came up from behind at an easy trot that was not much faster than a walk. Abreast, they exchanged glances, and Faunt recognized Burr; and Burr cried out in surprise:

“Uncle Faunt! Why—what—where in the world have you been?”

“Good morning, Burr.” Faunt did not answer the question. “I heard you were wounded.”

“Just a scratch.” Burr's eyes shadowed. “You know about Julian and Tommy?”

“Yes. How's Cinda? And Vesta?”

“Mama's fine. Yes, and Vesta, too.” There was some reservation in the boy's tone. “Papa was home Sunday, and Uncle Tony. Granny's going down to Chimneys with Tony. They leave today.”

Faunt felt a swift relief in the knowledge that his mother would be far away. He asked: “Have you heard anything definite about Julian?”

“No sir.” Burr said in an inquiring tone: “None of us knew where you were.”

Faunt thought Tony could have told them, but he must have held his tongue; yet Faunt recognized the fact that sooner or later he would need to make some explanation. “I went to Belle Vue,” he said. “Did your regiment have hard fighting at Williamsburg?”

“No sir, nothing serious. When the retreat began, we went up toward Eltham's Landing, on the York River, to watch for transports moving to hit our flank.” Their horses were side by side, with tossing heads; the risen sun, still low above trees ahead, struck full in their eyes. “Colonel Lee sent a patrol, a dozen of us, down along the river to report to General Stuart. The Yankees had got on Stuart's rear, so he had to circle and retreat up the river beach. We had a little excitement.” Sorry memory dulled his tones. “That night, Williamsburg was just one big hospital. Bruton Church and the college and most of the homes were full of wounded. I had a little cut in my leg, just a nick from a sabre. It didn't bother me as long as we were skirmishing; but at dark it began to stiffen up, so I went to the church—the doctors were working there—to have it bandaged.”

His voice caught; he coughed, cleared his throat, went on. “Uncle Trav came in while I was there, he and Rollin Lyle. You see, sir, a lot of bullets hit Tommy; a whole charge of canister or grape at pretty close range. They didn't think Vesta ought to see him, so they came to ask Mr. Ambler if he could be buried there. They'd taken him to Mr. Taylor's house, wrapped in blankets, and Rollin and Uncle Trav washed him, and Uncle Trav got someone to make a coffin. So we buried him there, just before sunrise. Mr. Ambler read the service.” He added: “We couldn't bring him to Richmond.”

Faunt nodded. “No, I suppose not. The army needed everything with wheels.” He asked: “You couldn't find Julian?”

“No sir. Rollin and Tommy and he were in the Fifth Carolina. They were all shot to pieces, the whole regiment. No one knows what happened to Julian.”

For a while neither spoke, moving quietly along the dusty road. Then Faunt asked: “Do you know a man named Mosby, in your regiment?”

“Only by sight. He was adjutant until we elected Colonel Lee; but then Mr. Mosby resigned his commission. General Stuart thinks he's about the best scout we have. Do you know him?”

“We have met,” Faunt assented, thinking Mosby might go with him through the Yankee lines to make some search for Julian. “He's almost persuaded me I ought to ‘jine the cavalry!' ”

“You ought to,” Burr agreed. “Why don't you?” But Faunt did
not reply. Remembering how he first met Mosby made him think of Nell and he forgot Burr for a while, living over his rich days with her till stale guilt came bitter on his tongue. But then he shook his head in hard defiance. Before he met Nell there had been that other shame to blacken all his world and all his life. What right had he to pride?

Self-scorn gave way to returning rage. Vesta's Tommy was dead, and Julian was lost, and these crimes were Lincoln's doing, and Lincoln was his own father's grandson! That was a shame only blood could wash away. Faunt's throat swelled, and there was a lust in him, a deadly lust to kill and kill.

May, 1862

 

T
RAV, while the army moved by stages to Barhamsville and then to New Kent Court House and finally to Long Bridge across the Chickahominy, was too much engaged with his own duties to go to Richmond; but at the week's end, leaving camp early Sunday morning, he rode the twenty miles to town.

When he reached the house on Fifth Street and saw these familiar faces, tragedy had left its mark on each. Vesta was pale, her skin almost transparent, and her freckles more than ordinarily conspicuous. They would have been ludicrous if they were not so pitiful. But Vesta herself, as though to ward off sympathy, spoke in tart accents, completely unlike her accustomed tone. Watching her, Trav felt tenderness in him like an insupportable burden; he fought down a resurgence of that storm of rage at war and at all the bloody works of man which had swept upon him on the night-shrouded battlefield at Williamsburg.

All of them that day at Cinda's were like actors in a play; they spoke as though by rote, and there was a false note in everything they said. This was particularly true of Vesta. She was quick with sarcastic comment, meant to sting and bruise. It was as though to hurt others somehow dulled her own pain. Thus when Brett who had been at home since Friday said politely: “I'm told General Longstreet did fine work at Williamsburg,” she laughed in light scorn.

“Fine work? All he did was to succeed in running away.”

For a moment no one spoke, but then Trav said: “Why, yes, I believe he did well. 1 wasn't there till after the fighting ended; but the
Yankees had enough so they let us march off without trying to stop us. Of course the mud was terrible; so we couldn't move faster than a crawl, and neither could they.”

“How is Cousin Jeems?”

This was Cinda, but Vesta added her bitter question. “Out of breath from running?”

Trav said gently: “Well, Cinda, he's never been as—jolly as he used to be, not since the babies died. His temper is pretty short. Of course he always had a rough tongue, but he's even more that way now. On the retreat, General Rains planted some shells in the roads where they would explode if the Yankees stepped on them, but General Longstreet reprimanded him for doing it.”

“Why?” Cinda asked. “That sounds sensible to me.”

Trav looked at Vesta, afraid she would speak. “General Longstreet considered it an improper form of warfare,” he said, and Vesta laughed, but Trav went on: “And General Rains resented the reproof. There's been quite an argument about it. I believe it's been carried up to Secretary Randolph. Longstreet isn't very tactful, you know. When he thinks a thing needs saying, he says it. He's more that way now than he used to be.” He added loyally: “But he's a great commander on the field. The Yankees found that out.”

Vesta rose and left the room, and their eyes followed her, and Brett crossed to Cinda, and Cinda said: “She'll be all right soon. Give her a little time.”

“Has she let go at all?”

“Not yet.”

Brett nodded, and he asked Trav what General Johnston planned to do, and Trav did not know. As the dinner hour approached, Enid came downstairs to join them; and Trav rose in awkward uncertainty, but she crossed to offer him her cheek, light amusement in her eyes. Jenny and Mrs. Currain appeared, and Burr and Barbara, and Vesta last of all; and Brett put his arm around her shoulders to hold her for a moment close, and she said in sharp protest: “Don't, Papal I felt all my ribs crack!”

“You're a fine young woman, my dear.”

“That's no reason to break me in two!”

At dinner they discussed the destruction of the
Merrimac
by her
own commander. Brett thought he must have acted under orders. “He'd not have done it otherwise.”

Trav doubted this. “I can't believe he was ordered to do it. It leaves the James River open to the Yankees to come up and shell Richmond any time they choose. President Davis wouldn't do that.”

Vesta said dryly: “Well, you know the ladies are building a new gunboat, so perhaps the Government decided it didn't need two!”

Cinda tried to laugh. “Yes, isn't it ridiculous? Ladies all over the South giving money and brooches and rings and kettles and clock weights, churches giving their bells, and all to build more gunboats for our own men to blow up!”

“Like children destroying their toys!” Vesta commented. “And now Mrs. Judge Clopton is calling another meeting to tell us we must work harder than ever!”

Brett said cheerfully: “Oh well, it lets you ladies blow off steam!” They thrashed this topic and winnowed it, talking like people who were afraid of silence. Trav saw the tension which bound them, the tight-drawn nerves, the wariness in every word and glance. They were all so near tears that they dared not venture on any mention of Tommy or of Julian at all.

Toward dusk the door bell rang, and Tony appeared. Trav saw the marks of dissipation on him, sunken cheeks, inflamed eyes, sagging lids; but his tone when he spoke was light and jesting. He had come to say good-by, he said; he was leaving for Danville on the morning train, going back to Chimneys.

“We've been wondering where vou and Faunt were,” Cinda said carefully; and Tony laughed.

“Oh, we parted at the door when we left you here. Am I my brother's keeper?” Vesta slipped silently away, so Cinda and Brett and Trav and Tony were left alone; and Tony said: “I took a ride in the country, felt the need of some good fresh air.” He looked toward the door..“What's the matter with Vesta?”

Brett answered him. “Tommy was killed at Williamsburg. And we don't know what happened to Julian.”

“Ha! That nephew of ours in Washington—” He checked himself and looked at Cinda. “Told Brett, have you?” She nodded, and
he said: “That nephew of ours has a lot to answer for. A disgrace to the family!”

His tone was jocose, and for a moment no one spoke, and Trav held his anger hard. Then Cinda abruptly turned the conversation. “Tony, I think you might take Mama to Chimneys, if we can persuade her to go. And I think we can. She's been so—passive, since she came here, with no mind of her own. Tilda and I have discussed it.” She appealed to Trav for his opinion. “She'd be cooler there, Travis; and safer, if Richmond's given up; and I think the house full of children tires her here.”

“It's cooler there, yes,” he agreed. “What do you think, Tony?”

Tony made a casual gesture. “Let Mama decide. After all, Chimneys is her property, not mine.”

“I think she'll go,” Cinda repeated. “She really has changed tremendously. She'll go if we suggest it. I'll ask her.”

When they put the question to Mrs. Currain she did not at once reply; and Trav said: “You've never been there, Mama; but it's mighty fine country, the mountains off against the sky, and the nearer hills, and the rich bottom lands. Wonderful to watch, toward sunset; and the house is high, catches the breeze.”

“Your father always said it was beautiful,” Mrs. Currain commented. “But he never took me there.” She fell silent, smiling at some thought of her own; and when Cinda spoke in gentle persuasion she seemed not to hear. Trav thought she appeared to fail a little and a little more during their every separation. All last winter and this spring, so many old people had faded and died, not from any apparent outward ill but as though their hearts were broken and they had no longer any wish to live. Sometimes grief for a son dead in battle or of disease might be the cause; yet he thought there was a deeper wound. To men and women who had been for three or four score years loyal citizens of the Union, it was a bitter thing to put that loyalty aside. Watching his mother now, her pale cheek, her frail hands, her lowered eyes, he thought of one after another among his acquaintances and friends, old people who a year ago had been happy and well and who now were gone.

Cinda finished wnatever she was saying, and to which he paid no
more heed than his mother seemed to pay, and Mrs. Currain said composedly: “I think I'll like it, yes. Tony, it's a long time since you and I have had a good visit together.”

Thus easily the matter was decided, and it seemed to Trav his mother's surrender of her will to theirs was eloquent. Certainly she had changed greatly in these weeks just gone. Cinda took her to begin to make ready for the journey, and Tony said Mr. Fiddler had persuaded him that Chimneys this year should be put into food crops, corn and beans and hogs, and Trav and Brett agreed that this was wise. They talked, some constraint on each one, for an idle while.

 

Before he rode back to Long Bridge, Trav had a moment with Enid alone; a moment of his seeking. She had gone to her room. He followed her, knocked, and at her summons opened the door.

“Oh, you, Trav?” She spoke in light surprise. “I didn't expect you to come to me.”

“I'm just leaving.”

“Well—why not just go?” He saw mockery in her eyes.

“Have you called on your mother?” She had said she would go to Mrs. Albion's, stay on there.

“I called, yes; but she was not at home.” Enid's color rose angrily. “Or at least, I was told she was not at home; yet I'm almost sure I saw someone looking through the curtains as the carriage stopped at her door.”

Trav said awkwardly: “Enid, I wish you wouldn't do anything—I mean, go to visit her—for the present.”

She laughed. “I suppose you think your wish is my law.”

“Well, Cinda and all of them are terribly hurt and sad just now. I hope you can—Well, I hope you won't do anything to make them more unhappy.”

“Cinda'd be glad to be rid of me, I'm sure.” She asked: “Trav, have you seen Faunt? No one seems to know where he is at all.”

“No, I haven't seen him. But Faunt's all right.”

“He'll surely come home before long.” Enid spoke half to herself; then she said with a quick smile, almost affectionately: “All right, Trav, just to please you I'll stay here quiet as a mouse. At least, for a while.”

With her promise to reassure him, he returned to headquarters. That week, Yankee gunboats came up the James River as far as Drewry's Bluffs; and though the batteries there prevented their further passage, General Johnston ordered Longstreet's divisions to move nearer Richmond. They marched by the one road that led from Long Bridge westward, and when they came to a maze of many crossroads that ranged confusingly through a region of scrub oak and pine and worn-out farms, Longstreet kept his staff busy seeking out their best course, extending his advance toward the river till he was in position to bolster the defense there against any new venture of the Yankee gunboats.

When the division had gone into bivouac, he summoned Trav. “Captain,” he said, “unless we are to abandon Richmond, we must soon make a stand. This country is all woods and swamps and cart tracks. If we're to fight here we'll have to know our way around. Get maps, and find guides who know the region.”

Trav expected no difficulty in carrying out these instructions. He went to Richmond, to the War Department; but there was no detailed map of the countryside immediately around Richmond, and as far as he could discover no effort was afoot to have maps drawn. The Department was in confusion, since great masses of papers and documents had been sent away to Columbia beyond the reach of the Yankees, and Trav's impression was that everyone was much more interested in leaving Richmond than in defending it. Certainly there were no maps; and he felt an angry incredulity at this discovery. He had always been a humble man, thinking of himself as slow and plodding and dull of wit; but men in authority were presumed to have wisdom and foresight.

Since there were no maps, Trav turned to a search for guides who knew their way among the many little roads that threaded these swamps and forests. Across the countryside between Longstreet's encampment and the James, he found wretchedly poor and hopelessly indolent white people living in miserable cabins, so listless and apathetic that they were ignorant of the roads even in their own immediate neighborhod. They knew the way to the nearest crossroads, or tne path to the nearest branch; but of the world beyond their immediate horizons they knew nothing. It seemed to Trav beyond belief that
within a dozen miles of the Richmond he knew, the Richmond of ease and intelligence and gentleness and leisure, there could be this lightless world where dwelt men and women like animals, friendly enough, hospitable enough, courteous enough, but with no virtues to set them higher than a friendly, welcoming dog.

Because of their ignorance, Trav was forced to explore for himself; and he made a rough map of the region south of the Williamsburg Turnpike, tracing three or four roads which ran parallel from the pike south and southeastward and which he thought might be useful in any further retreat toward Richmond, indicating crossroads between them, pacing off distances or estimating them. This was a region without conspicuous landmarks, a flat, faintly rolling plateau except where it broke down toward the river. On the plateau, each old field gone to sedge and pines was exactly like every other, each patch of woodland was cut from the same pattern as its neighbor. The roads themselves were indistinguishable one from another, and crossroads were few, and the roads meandered so aimlessly that it was impossible to remember every turn or to keep clear in your mind the directions to which they tended. Some of the roads seemed to have names; but not even people who lived upon the roads agreed on what these names were. Any one of the more or less parallel thoroughfares might be called the Charles City Road, or the Darbytown Road, or the New Market Road, depending on your informant. Any road that set out in a generally northwesterly direction would eventually, unless it dwindled to cart tracks and disappeared, come at last to the Williamsburg Turnpike and so to Richmond; but beyond that knowledge there was little of which you could be sure.